Atrocities Vs. Catholics

[ICTHUS]

****UPDATED STORY***** (Notice the date mentioned, 1641 is a very significant date in Irish history, it's the year of the Ulster Uprising that precipitated Oliver Cromwell to go kill Catholics indiscriminately and to deny us civil rights)

WHERE SHOULD I GO FROM HERE? What should happen to Fr. O'Riordan, Sean and Kathleen Flannery, and...how do I bring in their children, and how do I end it in a way that is believable and realistic???

*******************************************************

The morning sun had just risen over Dublin’s musty slum district, on a chilly morning in June.

In a small, dilapidated house on the corner of O’Riley and Killarney lane, Sean Flannery sat up in his bed, made the Sign of the Cross over himself, and began to pray the Our Father, followed by a decade of the Rosary. He then prayed earnestly for his wife, who was in the next room (lest she pass her sickness to him) suffering from a raging fever, as well as his children, who had already departed for the schoolhouse, where they had, of late, been suffering abuses by their staunchly Presbyterian schoolmaster.

Sinead, his youngest daughter, aged only six, had just the day before, come home complaining about how the man had caned her across the arm, and scolded her for her “Popish superstitions” because she had crossed herself after one of her schoolmates had taken the Name of the Lord in vain – she had been struck and scolded by the schoolmaster, whilst the boy had received naught but a warning (albeit, a stern one) for his blasphemy.

Patrick, his son, at fifteen, had received no such abuse – yet. Sean thought to himself for a moment as for a reason, and concluded that the boy was a big lad, and that it was not as easy to pick on him as it was in the case of little Sinead.

He got out of bed, and went over to his closet, and began to dress himself for work. He then went quickly into his wife, Kathleen’s room, and looked at her pityingly. She was sick inDouche, and looked as though she were nearly at deaths door.

He thought about calling on Father O’Riordan, their parish priest, for her, to give her the Annointing of the Sick and to hear her confession, and decided that he would call in to the aging priest on his way home from work. He hoped Kathleen had that much time left..

Putting aside the risk of infection out of love for his wife, he entered her room and knelt at her bedside, kissing his wife on the lips, which elicited from her a weak smile, even through her feverish delirium.

"Gráim thú"(1) she managed, weakly smiling as she spoke in the Gaelic tongue, the language of her ancestors, and the language they spoke in their most private and intimate conversations.

"I love you too, Kathleen. May Christ keep you safe until I return from work, and may the Blessed Virgin keep you in her prayers today", he said, fighting to keep from crying himself as he saw his wife dying. He then traced the Sign of the Cross over her forehead with his thumb, silently entreating the Heavens for her recovery,

Fighting back his tears, and with a gnawing fear growing in his stomach that his wife was going to die unless he could obtain some of the chemists concoction that was so effective at fighting off the particularly virulent strain of flu that was circulating Dublin, he set off to a dark, dingy factory – a factory, that, of all things, manufactured weaponry for the English Army.

He set off for work at a brisk pace, shivering in the early morning chill.

Passing by the Marketplace, Sean’s attention was drawn to a large bulletin attached to a stake driven into the ground. He approached, and read what was written there, on a piece of yellowed parchment, to his horror:

BY ORDER OF OLIVER CROMWELL, LORD PROTECTOR OF ENGLAND, PRACTICE OF THE ROMAN CATHOLIC RELIGION IS PROHIBITED UNDER PAIN OF DEATH. ANYONE FOUND TO BE PUBLICLY PARTICIPATING IN WORSHIP IN THE ROMISH CHURCH SHALL BE EXECUTED FORTHWITH. ANY ROMISH PRIESTS THAT SHALL BE FOUND IN DUBLIN SHALL BE DEPORTED, AND IF THEY BE FOUND SAYING MASSES, HEARING CONFESSIONS, OR OTHERWISE OFFICIATING, THEY SHALL BE KILLED.

FURTHERMORE, TWO THIRDS OF THE LAND BELONGING TO ALL ROMAN CATHOLICS SHALL BE SEIZED AND HANDED OVER TO THE ARMIES OF LORD CROMWELL, EXCEPTING THAT THE AFOREMENTIONED SHALL CONVERT TO THE REFORMED PRESBYTERIAN FAITH. ALL CITIES AND TOWNS IN IRELAND SHALL BE PLACED UNDER THE MILITARY CONTROL OF LORD CROMWELL AND HIS OFFICERS. FAILURE TO OBEY ANY AND ALL OF THEIR DIRECTIVES WILL RESULT IN DEATH.

Signed, This day of June 5th in the Year of Our Lord 1641

OLIVER CROMWELL, LORD PROTECTOR OF ENGLAND

Sean’s knees went weak, and his heart skipped a beat. He felt the blood drain out of his face and he nearly collapsed to the ground. All thought of going to his work left him, as he spinned around in the opposite direction and ran back in the direction of his home, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. As he ran he heard soldiers marching into the city and muskets firing. Soon, he began to see plumes of thick black smoke appear as the first of the soldiers became visible, faces almost emotionless. They ignored him, however, and continued on a rampage of destruction, taking lighted torches and setting alight houses and shops and whatever dwellings were within their sight.

Something caught his eye as he ran. Pillars of smoke began to rise up from buildings everywhere, as people ran out of burning buildings. He passed the small church, St. Patricks, where he and his family worshipped every Sunday – it, too, was ablaze. He quickly changed directions, sprinting over to the blazing church and peering inside.

Almost immediately, he heard the shouts of an old man who was trapped inside the church.

“Help!!” cried the voice, obviously in terror.

“Hullo there! Who is it” yelled Sean, through the crackling flames, the smoke searing his eyes.

”It’s Seamus…uh…Father O’Riordan! Who’s there!?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” exclaimed Sean, “It’s Sean Flannery, here, Father! Are you hurt? Can you get out of the flames?”

“God be praised, it’s Sean Flannery! I always knew that Our Lord was doing a good work in you, my son! But I don’t know if I can get out of this blaze!”, coughed the old priest, breathing in the smoke.

Edited October 25, 2003 by ICTHUS

[VeraMaria]

WOW ICTHUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!THIS IS amesome!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I myself have written several stories about Catholics being persecuted. I based one on the Reformation in England, but it's rather shaky....

YOURS IS REALLY, REALLY GOOD!

OK, keep in mind i'm into acting and like drama as you read the following....J/K....

I think Sean should maybe witness a martyrdom. A priest, a group of brothers or nuns, a family who refuses to give up their Catholic faith?? That should give an idea of how most catholics didn't simply convert to save their own hides, but stood by their faith.

If you want to make it really heart-wrenching while still having historical accuracy, you could do this: After coming back from something, he finds they have been singled out, found, by the gov. His son Patrick leaves the house declaring he's converting to Presbyteriansim, not willing to give up his life for one "belief" or another. His wife is dying and the only thing she wants is to receive the Last Rites from a Catholic priest. Sean cannot deny his wife this, and goes out to find an undercover priest.

They are discovered while the priest is giving her Last Rites and he is taken to prison with his daughter and (other children?). His wife dies a short while later (or she is killed).

Here you can go on as you want, or simply end it. I was watching a program on the history chanel that actually wasn't anti-catholic! It was really, really cool, about the persecution of catholics in england and ireland. How little children were killed along with their parents, refusing to give up their faith.

I don't know, you pick and choose. Maybe my version is too dramatic.

But whole families were killed, i think you should show that.

GOD BLESS!! You're an amesome writer! B)

[VeraMaria]

BUMP!!

Other threads move out of the way, this is important!! :D

[VeraMaria]

I FOUND A GREAT SITE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

http://www.angelfire.com/ms/seanie/history...moranindex.html

whatcha think?? :D

[Katholikos]

My meager contribution: Since this is for an English class, "spinned" should be "spun," the past tense and past participle of "spin."

"Sean’s knees went weak, and his heart skipped a beat. He felt the blood drain out of his face and he nearly collapsed to the ground. All thought of going to his work left him, as he spinned around in the opposite direction. . ."

I'd give it an A++.

[ICTHUS]

Vera, I'm already 2 steps ahead of ya, dude...I've been using that site all along!

[VeraMaria]

Vera, I'm already 2 steps ahead of ya, dude...I've been using that site all along!

Sorry, didn't know....

Guess I reinvented the wheel....whatever.... :D

[VeraMaria]

How's it going, ICTHUS???

[ICTHUS]

The morning sun had just risen over Dublin’s musty slum district, on a chilly morning in June.

In a small, dilapidated house on the corner of O’Riley and Killarney lane, Sean Flannery sat up in his bed, made the Sign of the Cross over himself, and began to pray the Our Father, followed by a decade of the Rosary. He then prayed earnestly for his wife, who was in the next room (lest she pass her sickness to him) suffering from a raging fever, as well as his children, who had already departed for the schoolhouse, where they had, of late, been suffering abuses by their staunchly Presbyterian schoolmaster.

Sinead, his youngest daughter, aged only six, had just the day before, come home complaining about how the man had caned her across the arm, and scolded her for her “Popish superstitions” because she had crossed herself after one of her schoolmates had taken the Name of the Lord in vain – she had been struck and scolded by the schoolmaster, whilst the boy had received naught but a warning (albeit, a stern one) for his blasphemy.

Patrick, his son, at fifteen, had received no such abuse – yet. Sean thought to himself for a moment as for a reason, and concluded that the boy was a big lad, and that it was not as easy to pick on him as it was in the case of little Sinead.

He got out of bed, and went over to his closet, and began to dress himself for work. He then went quickly into his wife, Kathleen’s room, and looked at her pityingly. She was sick inDouche, and looked as though she were nearly at deaths door.

He thought about calling on Father O’Riordan, their parish priest, for her, to give her the Annointing of the Sick and to hear her confession, and decided that he would call in to the aging priest on his way home from work. He hoped Kathleen had that much time left..

Putting aside the risk of infection out of love for his wife, he entered her room and knelt at her bedside, kissing his wife on the lips, which elicited from her a weak smile, even through her feverish delirium.

"Gráim thú"(1) she managed, weakly smiling as she spoke in the Gaelic tongue, the language of her ancestors, and the language they spoke in their most private and intimate conversations.

"I love you too, Kathleen. May Christ keep you safe until I return from work, and may the Blessed Virgin keep you in her prayers today", he said, fighting to keep from crying himself as he saw his wife dying. He then traced the Sign of the Cross over her forehead with his thumb, silently entreating the Heavens for her recovery,

Fighting back his tears, and with a gnawing fear growing in his stomach that his wife was going to die unless he could obtain some of the chemists concoction that was so effective at fighting off the particularly virulent strain of flu that was circulating Dublin, he set off to a dark, dingy factory – a factory, that, of all things, manufactured weaponry for the English Army.

He set off for work at a brisk pace, shivering in the early morning chill.

Passing by the Marketplace, Sean’s attention was drawn to a large bulletin attached to a stake driven into the ground. He approached, and read what was written there, on a piece of yellowed parchment, to his horror:

BY ORDER OF OLIVER CROMWELL, LORD PROTECTOR OF ENGLAND, PRACTICE OF THE ROMAN CATHOLIC RELIGION IS PROHIBITED UNDER PAIN OF DEATH. ANYONE FOUND TO BE PUBLICLY PARTICIPATING IN WORSHIP IN THE ROMISH CHURCH SHALL BE EXECUTED FORTHWITH. ANY ROMISH PRIESTS THAT SHALL BE FOUND IN DUBLIN SHALL BE DEPORTED, AND IF THEY BE FOUND SAYING MASSES, HEARING CONFESSIONS, OR OTHERWISE OFFICIATING, THEY SHALL BE KILLED.

FURTHERMORE, TWO THIRDS OF THE LAND BELONGING TO ALL ROMAN CATHOLICS SHALL BE SEIZED AND HANDED OVER TO THE ARMIES OF LORD CROMWELL, EXCEPTING THAT THE AFOREMENTIONED SHALL CONVERT TO THE REFORMED PRESBYTERIAN FAITH. ALL CITIES AND TOWNS IN IRELAND SHALL BE PLACED UNDER THE MILITARY CONTROL OF LORD CROMWELL AND HIS OFFICERS. FAILURE TO OBEY ANY AND ALL OF THEIR DIRECTIVES WILL RESULT IN DEATH.

Signed, This day of June 5th in the Year of Our Lord 1641

OLIVER CROMWELL, LORD PROTECTOR OF ENGLAND

Sean’s knees went weak, and his heart skipped a beat. He felt the blood drain out of his face and he nearly collapsed to the ground. All thought of going to his work left him, as he spun around in the opposite direction and ran back in the direction of his home, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. As he ran he heard soldiers marching into the city and muskets firing. Soon, he began to see plumes of thick black smoke appear as the first of the soldiers became visible, faces almost emotionless. They ignored him, however, and continued on a rampage of destruction, taking lighted torches and setting alight houses and shops and whatever dwellings were within their sight.

Something caught his eye as he ran. Pillars of smoke began to rise up from buildings everywhere, as people ran out of burning buildings. He passed the small church, St. Patricks, where he and his family worshipped every Sunday – it, too, was ablaze. He quickly changed directions, sprinting over to the blazing church and peering inside.

Almost immediately, he heard the shouts of an old man who was trapped inside the church.

“Help!!” cried the voice, obviously in terror.

“Hullo there! Who is it” yelled Sean, through the crackling flames, the smoke searing his eyes.

”It’s Seamus…uh…Father O’Riordan! Who’s there!?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” exclaimed Sean, “It’s Sean Flannery, here, Father! Are you hurt? Can you get out of the flames?”

“God be praised, it’s Sean! I always knew that you were a good man, my son...But I don’t know if I can get out of this blaze!”, coughed the old priest, breathing in the smoke.

Sean looked for a way to get the priest out of the blazing church, ignoring the heat searing his face. He looked frantically around, and finally he noticed a way through - Father O'Riordan was behind the altar, which had started to burn, and the aisle of the church, being free of any objects capable of burning, was free.

Sean rushed up the aisle and grasped his arm, allowing him the support of his shoulder as he helped him hobble out of the church - clearly, Father O'Riordan was nearly passed out from smoke inhalation, and so Sean half dragged him out of the church. Just as they burst out of the door and into the midmorning sun, the roof of the church collapsed behind them.

Father O'Riordan coughed, as though he would cough up one of his lungs, and finally, he stood upright and looked at Sean.

"Sean Flannery, you, my son, are a gift from God Himself!"

[ICTHUS]

Woopsie, didnt mean to add that.

Okay, here's a question.

1. Would a priest be able, under emergency circumstances, to celebrate Mass with any old scrap of bread around?

[VeraMaria]

I don't know....anyone here who can answer that??

[ICTHUS]

The relevant paragraph in the story:

They awoke just before dawn. Father O’Riordan administered the Last Rites to those who were present. He asked the jailer for a piece of bread, but rather than eating it straight away, he made a makeshift altar out of one of the loose stone in his cell, and he celebrated Mass with Sinead and Sean.

He preached what must have been the shortest homily in history, saying merely

“Our Lord says, in the Gospel of Luke, that whosoever wishes to be His disciple, must take up his cross and follow Him. Today, all three of us have been given the martyrs cross to take up. We have endured Gethsamenes tears, and now, all that remains is the long, arduous walk up Calvary’s Hill.”

After he had preached the homily, he offered the Eucharist, knowing this would be the last Mass he would ever celebrate.

(Me) does this make sense?

[VeraMaria]

Yes it does. To me, at least.

When you get to the martyrdom scene, or even in the prison scene, you can contrat his little daughter's innocence, that love and purity in little children with the harsh cruelty of the "world".

Does that make sense? :blink:

[ICTHUS]

*****DONE****** AND I'm already 1072 words OVER my word limit (800-1000) so PLEASE DONT SUGGEST I WRITE ANYMORE. In fact, if you think of anything that is unnecessary or superfluous, please suggest ways in which I could cut it down and replace it with shorter, more compact bits!!

The morning sun had just risen over Dublin’s musty, dilapidated slum district, on a chilly morning in June.

In a small, dilapidated house on the corner of O’Riley and Killarney lane, Sean Flannery sat up in his bed, made the Sign of the Cross over himself, and began to pray the Our Father, followed by a decade of the Rosary. He then prayed earnestly for his wife, who was in the next room (lest she pass her sickness to him) suffering from a raging fever, as well as his children, who had already departed for the schoolhouse, where they had, of late, been suffering abuses by their staunchly Presbyterian schoolmaster.

Sinead, his youngest daughter, aged only six, had just the day before, come home complaining about how the man had caned her across the arm, and scolded her for her “Popish superstitions” because she had crossed herself after one of her schoolmates had taken the Name of the Lord in vain – she had been struck and scolded by the schoolmaster, whilst the boy had received naught but a warning (albeit, a stern one) for his blasphemy.

Patrick, his son, at fifteen, had received no such abuse – yet. Sean thought to himself for a moment as for a reason, and concluded that the boy was a big lad, and that it was not as easy to pick on him as it was in the case of little Sinead.

He got out of bed, and went over to his closet, and began to dress himself for work. He then went quickly into his wife, Kathleen’s room, and looked at her pityingly. She was sick inDouche, and looked as though she were nearly at deaths door.

He thought about calling on Father O’Riordan, their parish priest, for her, to give her the Annointing of the Sick and to hear her confession, and decided that he would call in to the aging priest on his way home from work. He hoped Kathleen had that much time left..

Putting aside the risk of infection out of love for his wife, he entered her room and knelt at her bedside, kissing his wife on the lips, which elicited from her a weak smile, even through her feverish delirium.

"Gráim thú"(1) she managed, weakly smiling as she spoke in the Gaelic tongue, the language of her ancestors, and the language they spoke in their most private and intimate conversations.

"I love you too, Kathleen. May Christ keep you safe until I return from work, and may the Blessed Virgin keep you in her prayers today", he said, fighting to keep from crying himself as he saw his wife dying. He then traced the Sign of the Cross over her forehead with his thumb, silently entreating the Heavens for her recovery. He took one long, last look at her, taking in the sight of the beautiful woman he had married, her long, straight brown locks now touseled from being bedridden, the fever having transformed her beautiful emerald eyes, to a dull jade.

Fighting back his tears, and with a gnawing fear growing in his stomach that his wife was going to die unless he could obtain some of the chemists concoction that was so effective at fighting off the particularly virulent strain of flu that was circulating Dublin, he set off to a dark, dingy factory – a factory, that, of all things, manufactured weaponry for the English Army.

He set off for work at a brisk pace, shivering in the early morning chill.

Passing by the Marketplace, Sean’s attention was drawn to a large bulletin attached to a stake driven into the ground. He approached, and read what was written there, on a piece of yellowed parchment, to his horror:

BY ORDER OF OLIVER CROMWELL, LORD PROTECTOR OF ENGLAND, PRACTICE OF THE ROMAN CATHOLIC RELIGION IS PROHIBITED UNDER PAIN OF DEATH. ANYONE FOUND TO BE PUBLICLY PARTICIPATING IN WORSHIP IN THE ROMISH CHURCH SHALL BE EXECUTED FORTHWITH. ANY ROMISH PRIESTS THAT SHALL BE FOUND IN DUBLIN SHALL BE DEPORTED, AND IF THEY BE FOUND SAYING MASSES, HEARING CONFESSIONS, OR OTHERWISE OFFICIATING, THEY SHALL BE KILLED.

ANYONE FOUND TO BE SECRETLY HARBORING A PRIEST, FRIAR, NUN, OR MONK SHALL BE EXECUTED.

FURTHERMORE, TWO THIRDS OF THE LAND BELONGING TO ALL ROMAN CATHOLICS SHALL BE SEIZED AND HANDED OVER TO THE ARMIES OF LORD CROMWELL, EXCEPTING THAT THE AFOREMENTIONED SHALL CONVERT TO THE REFORMED PRESBYTERIAN FAITH. ALL CITIES AND TOWNS IN IRELAND SHALL BE PLACED UNDER THE MILITARY CONTROL OF LORD CROMWELL AND HIS OFFICERS. FAILURE TO OBEY ANY AND ALL OF THEIR DIRECTIVES WILL RESULT IN DEATH.

Signed, This day of June 5th in the Year of Our Lord 1641

OLIVER CROMWELL, LORD PROTECTOR OF ENGLAND

Sean’s knees went weak, and his heart skipped a beat. He felt the blood drain out of his face and he nearly collapsed to the ground. All thought of going to his work left him, as he spun around in the opposite direction and ran back in the direction of his home, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. As he ran he heard soldiers marching into the city and muskets firing.

Something caught his eye as he ran. Pillars of smoke began to rise up from buildings everywhere as the soldiers set fire to buildings. People ran out of burning houses, screaming

He passed the small church, St. Patricks, where he and his family worshipped every Sunday – it, too, was ablaze. He quickly changed directions, sprinting over to the blazing church and peering inside.

Almost immediately, he heard the shouts of an old man who was trapped inside the church:

“Help!!” cried the man, obviously in terror.

“Hullo there! Who is it” yelled Sean, through the crackling flames, the smoke searing his eyes.

”It’s Seamus…uh…Father O’Riordan! Who’s there!?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” exclaimed Sean, “It’s Sean Flannery, here, Father! Are you hurt? Can you get out of the flames?”

“God be praised, it’s Sean! I always knew that you were a good man, my son...But I don’t know if I can get out of this blaze!”, coughed the old priest, breathing in the smoke.

Sean looked for a way to get the priest out of the blazing church, ignoring the heat searing his face. He looked frantically around, and finally he noticed a way through - Father O'Riordan was behind the altar, which had started to burn, and the aisle of the church, being free of any objects capable of burning, was free.

Sean rushed up the aisle and grasped his arm, allowing him the support of his shoulder as he helped him hobble out of the church - clearly, Father O'Riordan was nearly passed out from smoke inhalation, and so Sean half dragged him out of the church. Just as they burst out of the door and into the midmorning sun, the roof of the church collapsed behind them.

Father O'Riordan coughed, as though he would cough up one of his lungs, and finally, he stood upright and looked at Sean.

"Sean Flannery, you, my son, are a gift from God Himself!"

“Father, don’t flatter me. I’ve a wife sick in her bed, children God-knows-where, and these God-confounded Cromwellians burning Dublin to the ground. Will ye give me a hand, Father?”

“Aye, my son, I’ll do what I can, I’m an old man, but I still have some fight left in me”

Sean nodded his head, as Father O’Riordan recovered the last of his strength, and they ran the few blocks to Sean’s home. To his horror, when he found it burning as well!

Fear knotted his stomach as he went around to the back of the house, Father O’Riordan at his heels. There, he found his daughter Sinead, her plain tartan school dress covered in black soot, her fine brown hair, usually straight, was touseled, knotted, and singed. She was crying, and her sharp green eyes that seemed to almost laugh when ever she talked, were now overflowing with a child’s relentless tears of unquenchable grief.

Sean rushed over to his daughter and folded her in his arms. She spoke, at length.

“Daddy, they burned the house…Mummy was inside!”

Sean’s heart sank. He had had a feeling that when he had left the house that morning, that he would never see his wife again, and their daughter had just confirmed that suspicion.

Sean spoke, weakly, fighting back his own tears as he tried to comfort his daughter.

“Sinead, I’m sorry. It’s just daddy now. Your mommy is in Heaven with Our Lord”

Father O’Riordan came forward and spoke, looking into Sinead’s eyes.

“Sinead, if it’s any comfort, your mother was a good woman who loved the Lord Jesus with all her heart, mind, and soul. She’s in Heaven now, of that, I’m sure.”

Sinead spoke, looking at Sean, and then glancing at Father O’Riordan.

“Patrick left school when the soldiers came” she wailed, “he said he wasn’t going to die with his family over their silly religion. He said “better to be a Presbyterian and live on ones knees before the enemy than to live in servitude on ones feet, or to die in the gallows on your knees beggin for mercy!” , or I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, but I’m a-feared for him, daddy.”

Sean felt the world was falling down around him. First his wife was burned alive inside her own house, then his son deserted them. There was no way out of this.

At that moment, three men on horseback with muskets rode up to them. The last of the horses, however, carried two riders on the saddle. As the last horse rode up, Sean saw who the second person was.

It was his son, Patrick.

The riders dismounted, and at length one of them spoke, in a cockney English accent. Patrick stood beside him.

“Sean Michael Flannery, you are the owner of this estate?” said he.

“Yes, I am.” Said Sean, matter of factly.

“Well then I have come to inform you that Lord Cromwell has ordered it burned. And he offers you a choice.”

“What choice, what offer, could his Lordship Cromwell offer me, a simple Irish peasant, that he thinks I would accept?” sneered Sean, sarcastically.

“Your life and property” Said the soldier. “Give up your silly Romish religion and we shall spare you!”

“Never.” replied Sean, glaring the soldier in the eye.

The soldier spoke, smiling.

”Very well then. I hereby proclaim that this land, and the farmyard attached to it, belongs properly to Lord Oliver Cromwell. The house – or what remains of it – remains the property of one Sean Michael Flannery.”

Sean stood, unflinchingly, as the edict was read out.

At that moment, Patrick looked glaringly at Father O’Riordan, and spoke to the three soldiers who had accompanied him.

Gesturing to Father O’Riordan, he said

“That man, there - the one in the singed cassock. He is a priest.”

The three looked at Patrick, and then at Father O’Riordan. The leader again spoke.

“So, harbouring priests are we? Well, we all know what happens when we do THAT, don’t we?”

The leader ordered the three arrested. They were handled roughly, and pushed and prodded to a nearby cart in which prisoners were rounded up. They were taken to county gaol, and thrown inside a filthy old cell.

At length, a soldier came and spoke to them.

“You there! Yes, you. You’ve been arrested for harbouring a priest, and now your penalty is set. You shall go to the gallows at dawn.”

That night, Sean, Sinead, and Father O’Riordan huddled together, sleeping.

They awoke just before dawn. Father O’Riordan administered the Last Rites to those who were present. He asked the jailer for a piece of bread, but rather than eating it straight away, he made a makeshift altar out of one of the loose stone in his cell, and he celebrated Mass with Sinead and Sean.

He preached what must have been the shortest homily in history, saying merely

“Our Lord says, in the Gospel of Luke, that whosoever wishes to be His disciple, must take up his cross and follow Him. Today, all three of us have been given the martyrs cross to take up. We have endured Gethsamenes tears, and now, all that remains is the long, arduous walk up Calvary’s Hill.”

After he had preached the homily, he offered the Eucharist, knowing this would be the last Mass he would ever celebrate.

At exactly the break of Dawn, the trapdoors swung open, and the lives of one six year old girl, one grown man, and one venerable old priest, were snuffed out.

FINIS

Edited October 26, 2003 by ICTHUS

[VeraMaria]

It's amazing. Really amazing. It came out great!!!!!

Congrats!!

It would make a fine book, if you started at the beginning and ended at the end and were very detaild!!!

Those stupid word limits!! I always write longer than required, and then teachers take off points for it being too "sprawling".

But it turned out great!!